Poems On Our Favorite Detective and Boswell
by misunderstoodemon
Summary: ON HIATUS.A collection of poems I've written since I was introduced to the wonder that is Holmes. Reviews are most welcome, and feedback is appreciated. 28: After Yelling 29: Have you ever found yourself copying him, doing what he would do?....
1. Watcher

Watcher

Authors Note: I'm alive! I had six teeth pulled, so I was restrained from the computer while the swelling went down and I stopped gushing blood ;) Miss me?

This was inspired by I don't know what, but it's my first SH poem posted, so be kind. If the format seems weird, well I'm still figuring out how to get rid of these darn double spaces! Bear with me, please, as I try to navigate the many pitfalls of editing. If it's not right, I'll keep fixing it until it is! growls

Thank you to Ayiana for helping me navigate those pitfalls, and steering me in the right direction! (I am also dazzled be your brilliance;))

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Sir Arthur Conan Doyles genius dazzles my sadly limited facilties, and as such, it should be quite obvious that I do not have the nessessary brialliance for the creation of the wonderful characters I am borrowing for the purpose of this poem and the others I will be posting under this story title. Satisfied?

He watches  
 the seething masses  
 of humanity.  
Silently.  
Stilly.  
Immobile and sure.

No one dares go near him.  
They know who is.  
What he is doing.  
They dare not disturb him.

He watches  
 the masses,  
 deducting,  
 deducing,  
 who they are.  
What they are.  
Uncovering their secrets with a glance.  
Baring their souls for him to peruse  
 at will.

Silently,  
stilly,  
he watches.

He doesn't start  
 as he is joined,  
  the other chair  
  scraping back,  
 but instead smiles.  
As the Doctor joins him.

Reviews welcome as always- my first poem posted on (I think...), so feedback will be appreciated. FEEDBACK, not flames. Flames will be used to warm my hands in the rather chilly climate I abide in. Canada. In Winter. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.


	2. Stared

Stared

Authors Note: I got it! I've finally figured out formatting for poems, so it's all good! Even if I still can't yawn properly...

Disclaimer: See previous chapter/ Poem/ thingy...

He pays no attention  
 as they watch him.  
He knows they do.  
He knows more of them  
 than they of him.  
He lets them watch,  
 satisfy their curiosity,  
As he reads the paper.

He pays no mind  
 to their stares,  
but instead silently tallies  
information gleaned,  
from the paper in front of him,  
and from the set of their eyes,  
their dress,  
their mannerisms,  
the subtle nuances  
of their speech.

His gaze shifts only slightly  
 as his cup is refilled,  
 as the other patrons,  
 watch.

He doesn't mind all that much.  
But as he pays,  
 he wishes they wouldn't,  
  stare.

Reviews welcome, after all, it's not like you get them for High School essays. Especially not on 'The Bird In The House'. If only I had some matiches...


	3. Eyes

Authors Note: OK, I'm up to like 20 or more SH poems, so expect this to get... long. Especially for me. This was inspired my JBs eyes, as you might have guessed- they're so expresive... sigh... OK, I'll moon over Jeremy once I'm done this. heh heh.

Disclaimer: Do I have to say it again? Good. I said it in the first chapter all ready.

Eyes

There are few in this world  
 who are truly exceptional.  
He is one of those few.  
Exceptional in every way.

You wouldn't guess it  
 from looking at him-  
His dress, his fleeting smile,  
 his mannerisms.  
Wouldn't guess that he's  
 any different  
From thousands of others.

It's his eyes that give him away-  
shifting, watching,  
looking, seeking,  
 seeing.  
Constantly.

Those eyes never cease  
 watching, looking, searching.  
For what, I don't think  
 even he knows.  
But maybe he does.  
I don't.

He doesn't tell a fraction  
 of what he sees,  
And he's forgotten  
 more than I'll ever know.

Those eyes, they know.  
And never forget.  
They just learn to live with it.

Reviews more than welcome, as always. Input appreciated!


	4. RiddleGame

Authors Note: Two posts in one day?! must be some sort of a record, at least for me. Would have done this one hours ago, but the little sister kicked me off the computer. Anyway, this was inspired by thinking what Watson might have done to keep Sherlocks mind occupied- when he didn't have a case, or when he was trying to keep him off the cocaine. The answer popped into my head- riddles. This... grew from that.

The riddle is: What is something that everything has? Answer contained within!

Riddle-Game

He watches  
 as his companion paces,  
 puffing at his pipe,  
 with all the vigor and regularity.  
Of a steam engine.

Looking back down at his paper,  
 he waits.  
He knows he'll figure it out,  
Eventually.  
He always does.

There are few things  
 anyone  
 can hide from him,  
 least of all this.  
Besides, this is just a game.

Not serious.

He listens as his companions  
 footsteps slow,  
 and stop, facing him,  
The smoke from the pipe  
 hanging in the air like  
 low-lying clouds.

"I've got it," he declares,  
 and sits down.  
"A name."  
His companion just smiles,  
 and stands, stretching,  
"Well?" he asks, puffing again.  
"Is that it or not?"  
He just smiles, and leaves.

He deserves to be kept up.

But he'll lock his door.  
Just in case.

Well, Watson deserves some revenge for all the late nights and jaunts all over Europe without any explanation, doesn't he? I hate to think what the revenge on Watson will be, though. Write that if you want, or give me an idea in a PM- or a review! (nudge nudge, wink wink). Always happy to hear from anyone who reads this, heck, anyone who doesn't too. Well that doesn't make any sense...


	5. Basil

Authors Note: Because I love Basil and the fics I've read with him appearing. I can't help it. Who doesn't love an educated British mouse who wears an Iverness and rides a bloodhound?

Disclaimer: Do I really have to say it again? I thought not.

Basil

Black eyes from underneath the desk,  
 silently observe the man-giants,  
One pacing as he puffs on a pipe,  
 the other reading.

Brown head shakes,  
 silently urging something,  
 anything, almost,  
 to happen.

He almost squeaks in delight  
 when Mrs. Hudson appears  
 at the door, with the words,  
"Someone to see you, Mr. Holmes."  
Sitting up eagerly, he waits  
 for the guest to be shown in.

As the man is brought in,  
 shaking drops off his coat,  
 the small figure settles in,  
 eager for the game to begin anew.

As always, reviews and suggeestions are welcome. I've recently come to the realization that my poetry lately is really just letting out bits of stories I'll never write, or images that have been stuck in my head. Feel free to give me any suggestions you have! (review? hint hint)


	6. Watched

Authors Note: Because I feel terribly sorry for Watson during those long years without Holmes, and I can't image Holmes being away from London ALL that time...

Disclaimer: Yes, well... I don't own them. Obvious, really, when you consider my intelligence compared to that of Holmes or Sir Arthur Conan Doyles, but still. Apparently I have to say it. Hmph.

Watched

You sense him,  
 watching,  
 from the corner of your eye.  
Glimpse him when you're not  
 looking.  
Turn to look  
 and he's not there.

You expect him to stride up,  
 greet you,  
 and, together,  
 begin some grand adventure.

But he doesn't

You sense them,  
 watching whispering,  
 wherever you go.  
They have turned their attention  
 to you.  
But all you can see is black  
 mourning-clothes.  
And you, wryly, think that this  
 might be a taste of what it was like  
 for him,  
all those years.

Watched

But not once do you suspect  
 who it was doing the watching.

Him.

Well? What did you think? Like? Love? Want to rip your eyes out? TELL ME!!


	7. Here

Authors Note: This was written a while ago (comparatively), and was brought on by feeling as though Sherlock WAS following me around or something. Weird, but wonderful. :) I actually did write this in front of my living room window, and I found myself continually looking outside to see if there was a creepy person sitting in a car with binoculars watching me or something. On another note, seems to be stealing all the spaces at the beginning of lines, and doesn't want me to use the tab function either, so if it looks a little off, blame it on the site.

Disclaimer: Said it before, I'll say it again, and it won't be the last time either, dang it. I... sigh... don't own them. Satisfied?

Here

Have you ever seen him,  
 out of the corner of your eye?  
Glimpsed a black top-hat,  
 as he ducked through a door?

Ever smelt the pipe-smoke  
 mixed with the fog and dirt  
 that is, uniquely, London?

Have you ever felt those eyes  
 watching you,  
 though you couldn't see them,  
 or their owner,  
 or tell where he'd come from.

Have you ever heard his step,  
  punctuated by the thud of his walking-stick,  
 as he walked down the street,  
  or heard a slip of his voice,  
  a conversation with his companion, perhaps.

I have heard, seen, smelt, felt, tasted.  
Even as I write this, I feel him,  
 watching through the window  
  over my shoulder.  
I can hear his comments to Watson  
  as he reads this,  
 see him pacing before my eyes,  
 feel his quick eyes cutting me to the core  
  with their gaze.  
I can smell the London air, his pipe, the fire,  
 feel the air move with his steps  
 as he passes me once again.

I can taste the air, heavy and thick  
 upon my tongue,  
 filling my lungs  
 and sitting on my chest  
 until I can hardly breathe for it.

I can feel him, here.  
Half a world away,  
 his presence is still strong.  
I can see him,  
 talking to the Doctor,  
 puffing on his pipe,  
 and now,  
 just this once,  
 I can see him smile,  
 just for me.

OK, fluffyness crept in there at the end. And the fact that I've fallen madly in love with Jeremy Brett doesn't help matters ;) sigh. I'm a hopeless fangirl, just say it.

Also, say it in a review (do I smell a greeting card?)! TELL ME what you thought! I'm not gonna get any better unless I have something to go on!


	8. Colours

Authors Note: OK, two posts in one day!! WOOT! Actually, I hadn't posted for a while because our internet was... gone... for a few days thanks to thsi bloodty sceurity program we have. grrrr... I'd hurt it if I could, believe me. This came out of noticing all the colours in my school and thinking how you could tell a story with just the colours. Yeah, I'm nuts. Our school colours are hideous anyway...

Disclaimer: Said it before. Not sayin' it twice in the same hour. Matter of principle, you understand.

Colours

The night is black.  
The fog is grey,  
All encompassing and wet.

The mens coats are brown,  
 dirty and worn.  
His blade is silver,  
 clean and quick.

The handle is brass,  
 so far away.  
The doctors jacket is tweed,  
 a welcome sight.

The bullet is grey,  
 dull and dirty lead.  
The blood is red,  
 an unwelcome guest.

The bandages are white.

His grey eyes open,  
 a most welcome sight.

Yeah, he lives. Like I could seriously hurt the man I love...

Reviews! Food of the writers! FEED ME!!


	9. Pity

Authors Note: Recently, I was forced to copy all of my files to floppy because of little remaining memory on my familys computer. That went well until the floppy ate my files, I have now lost all othe original stuff I ever typed on the computer, which I estimate is around 100 pages. I still have my poems, because I write them on paper first, but I have lost DAYS worth of typing, and I'm not even sure what was entirely lost and if I could ever got it back, so updates may be a good deal farther apart now. On the other hand, they may be more frequent because I want to reassure myself that I haven't lost EVERYTHING (which is what it feels like).

Disclaimer: No.

Pity

You watch him,  
 knowing full well he is aware of it,  
 looking away as soon as you realize this.

You feel vaguely in awe of him,  
 of what he's accomplished,  
 but also pity him, in a way.

You avert your eyes, sure he can read your feelings  
 from the expression on your face.  
How you pity the reporters and photographers  
 who tried to follow him  
 when he returned from the 'dead',  
 and pity their quarry.

How you pity the man behind  
 the great mind,  
 that won't shut off,  
 and the aloneness that surely haunts him.

But when you look up again,  
 the black expression on his face has lifted,  
 and he is looking animatedly out the window,  
 holding a letter in his hand.  
You shake your head and bend to your food.  
Pity can wait.

Reviews greatly appreciated. Pity will be acknowledged. Sympathy appreciated, but not as much as reviews.

I hate computers.


	10. Watching

Authors Note: Hallejuliah! Let the bells ring and the banners fly, 'cause I'm here, I'm here! *coughs* OK, Genie With the Light Brown Hair is back in his lamp. BUT, good news: My aunt (bless her) took my floppy back to her house, did SOMETHING to it with her computer, and VOILA! I have my files back, I have no clue how she did it, all that matters is that she did. I am now hyper with sheer joy and a possible overdose of Jeremy Brett/ Sherlock videos. Like that's possible. This chapter and all others unless otherwise specified are hereby dedicated to her, because without her I would still be typing all the stuff I lost, and because she introduced me to most of my obsesions, though not Sherlock. That privilege belongs to my dad.

Disclaimer: Don't own them. I only just found my files again, so it probably wouldn't be good for the boys if I DID own them. Possibly hazardous to their health, you know.

Watching

Have you ever felt followed,  
 watched,  
 even in the safety of Home?

Have you ever felt eyes on you,  
 when, logically, you know there  
 to be none-  
 you are alone,  
 and no one peers through the window.

That's what I feel, now.  
I feel eyes on me,  
 watching my every move,  
 uncovering my secrets  
 as they watch me.

It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling  
Because I know the watcher  
Oh, yes. I know.  
It's him.

Him- the on I have written about,  
 read about,  
 watched on the screen,  
 compiled lists about,  
 plotted stories for,  
 even if they never make it out-  
 of my head or my room.

Though it's been ... so long  
 since he was ... well, alive, I suppose,  
I still know it's him.  
A hundred years has done nothing to change  
The quickness of his wit,  
 the deductions  
 and observations  
 the sharpness of those eyes,  
 that particular face  
 or his memories.

If anything, his job has gotten harder.  
So many people,  
 so many places,  
 so little time,  
 all so much the same.

But he keeps on-  
 he has to-  
 and I can feel him,  
 watching,  
 following my every step,  
 waiting,  
 and watching.

OK, question. I have written well over a dozen poems from the perspective of *sigh* a Time Travelling Teen. I know, I'm ashamed. Most of tem are generally musings on SH and Watson, bits of their days, etc. NOT SH/OFC. It's friendship, and mutual curiousity more than anything. Here's the question: Are you interested? If no one is, I won't post them, and this 'story' will end a wee bit sooner than I anticipated. If you are interested, go ahead and review, PM me, or e-mail me. My e-mail is on my profile.

And, feel free to review even if you don't want to read those poems. I LIKE reviews, really!


	11. Family, For Jeremy

Authors Note: This is for Jeremy Brett, written on the day of his birth, 75 years after that great day. I don't care if this is technically not fanfiction, I needed to post this, and this was the only place I thought someone might 'get' it.

Disclaimer: Shoot me. I could never own Him, but I own my own poetry.

Family

We didn't care if you never knew us.  
We knew you.  
And we only wanted you to be happy.  
We wished,  
hoped,  
dreamed,  
prayed,  
that you would somehow heal.

Somehow endure  
beyond the pain  
that you had suffered through  
for so long.

We didn't care if we never saw you again,  
we just wanted you  
to be happy,  
in a huge garden,  
with the love of your life.

We wanted you to enjoy your years,  
not suffer.  
Never suffer.

If we could have,  
we would have healed you.

The strength of our love,  
the fire of our passion,  
the all-encompassing desire  
to see you alive, and well.  
Happy.

If there was a way,  
we would have found it-  
a way to heal you, save you,  
as you did so many of us.

We wanted to,  
oh how we wanted to,  
but there was just no way.  
No way we could find.

We would have walked to the ends of the earth  
to save you.  
To heal you.

This is not the love of 'fans'.  
This is not the passion of fangirls.  
This is the love of family.  
This is the passion of someone  
who would die for you.

And we would have,  
if it would have saved you.

Some of us did die,  
with you.  
A small part of all of us died,  
that September day.  
With you.

Because that day,  
the day you left,  
forever,  
we lost a part  
of our family.

November 3, 2008

For Jeremy.  
Because you touched our lives.

Jeremy Brett  
November 3, 1933 - September 12, 1995  
A great actor. A greater man.


	12. Sweet Sixteen

Authors Note: This was written on my sixteenth birthday, just recently. I may not want to be 16, but I guess I have to make the best of it. I didn't think I would have 'done' so much by the time I was 16 years ago, but I have, and I like being who I am- even if who I am happens to be 16.

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Obviously didn't get them for my birthday, but Winterfest and Christmas and Winter Solstice and all the other winter holdays ARE coming up... hint hint.

Sweet Sixteen

Today's my birthday.  
Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.  
Oh, but I've done so much more.

I've walked the moors  
with a detective and a doctor,  
in search of a Hound.

I've waited, impatiently  
for an Inspector to come to his  
incorrect conclusions.  
I've cheered him on  
when he got one right.

I've walked the streets  
of a London now gone,  
broke into houses  
of rich men and women.

I've been fitted for dresses  
with corsets and petticoats,  
and spent hours  
doing up boots.

I've sat by the fire  
and worried,  
desperate for them to be safe at home,  
and scolded them when they arrived.

I've brewed tea,  
fetched blankets,  
organized papers,  
located pipes,  
and rescued the unsuspecting.

I've cried quietly  
when the pain was too great.

I wailed and sobbed,  
when the missing of him  
got too much.

I've scoured the papers,  
searched for the books,  
searched for references,  
tried my best  
to make my own deductions.

I've sighed- with longing,  
with pity and exasperation,  
and with love.  
Always with love.

But I've danced  
across a gas-lit floor,  
in a dress made just for me,  
and smiling so much  
my cheeks hurt from it.

And I've watched from the shadows  
as someone intervenes, and,  
finally,  
sets it all,  
right.

As always, reviews more than welcome. I review- why don't you?


	13. Last Bow

Authors Note: OK, this was written after I had finished a volume of my dads 'Assorted Sherlock Holmes' books. DEFINITELY the was to read Doyle- curled up on a poofy couch, and the book is leather embossed with gold *sigh* gotta love it. The last story in that volume was 'his Last Bow', and *sniffle* it hit me kinda hard. Thus, this poem.

Authors Note 2: I asked a question a few chapters ago. Only one reply. Plese follow suit. THANK YOU CAT! So, Do you want me to post the poems I've written from the POV of someone who is Right There with SH, and knows the stories?

Disclaimer: Really? Again? Well, I suppose so. No, I don't own them. But Christmas is coming! And Winterfest!. . . I love you Santa :) . . .

It leaves a sad taste in my mouth,  
this story.  
I laughed for much of it,  
at Homes' defiled English,  
at the effects of chloroform vapour  
upon the palate,  
at all his little comments  
that tickle me so.

But, still,  
knowing what was to come  
in the years ahead,  
how many would suffer,  
die,  
what was not,  
in the end,  
averted.

And, also,  
their stories.  
Their last quiet talk,  
the changing age,  
all around them,  
now feeling twenty years younger.  
Instead of being it.

Somehow,  
it never hit me  
before this one.

That they aged.  
That they grew older.  
And all the things that went with that.  
That they grew greyer.

Wiser, yes.  
Always wiser.  
But never older.  
They were eternal,  
unchangeable,  
Forever young.

Now, that illusion has been shattered,  
like so many before it.  
I will mourn it,  
like the others.  
But I refuse to mourn for more.

Not for my innocence,  
lost gradually through the Words,  
though not these ones.  
Not for the men I miss so sorely  
-they remain with me here.-  
Not for anything else.

And, especially  
not for Him.

He is forever young.  
Even if it's only in my eyes,  
he is eternal,  
unchangeable.  
And there are thousands  
of quiet talks to come.

So, answer my question and REVIEW! I'll consider it a present....


	14. Storyteller

Authors Note: Well since I only got one reply to my question of whether I should post this, I will. And is still stealing my spaces, so I'll just have to make do. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Really wish I did, but I don't. Sucks to be ne.

I watch as he smokes his pipe, pacing,  
as I try to sew a straight line,  
like Mrs. Hudson showed me.  
I'm not very good at it.

I don't even know why I'm still here,  
other than that I amuse him,  
and that he likes my stories.  
They're not even stories.  
Just truths from another time.

Also, I don't think he has the heart  
to turn me out on the streets.  
There's not much I could do.  
I have no money, few skills that would be of use  
here and now.  
Balancing chemical equations  
and calculating velocity  
or dissection symbolism in Shakespeare  
isn't much use in Victorian England.

Most people would have tossed me out,  
dismissed me as crazy,  
or useless,  
but he's not most people,  
and the few predictions I've been able to make  
have come true.  
So he keeps me around.  
And I suppose I'm a help  
to Mrs. Hudson, for what I can do.  
She needs all the help she can get.

He stops and turns to face me  
as I inspect me ragged seam,  
better than before, but not good enough.  
He asks me a question,  
and I answer.

The next thing I know, I'm telling  
what I remember  
of a story I read years ago,  
about Robin Hood.

I'm running out of stories I can  
remember clearly.  
I'll have to write them down,  
so I can remember more.

That's how we spend the night-  
the detective, the doctor and  
the girl.

If this were a story, I expect I'd be  
the comic relief,  
swearing and blushing and generally  
not being a Victorian lady.  
A glorified secondary character.

They don't get the guy,  
or save the day,  
or catch the bullets.  
But we're good- useful.

And this isn't a story, is it?

I'm posting twice in one day- be nice and have a present waiting for me the next time I check my e-mail? Like a review?

Please?


	15. Amuse

Authors Note: OK, I think that Sherlock would be rather amused by some of the things we think of as 'normal'. Mainly because, let's face it, half the stuff we do and say every day makes absolutely NO SENSE. Why is t-shirt singular and pants plural? Why do you close a shop UP, and open it UP. And why in the world did we put an man on the moon before we realized it's be a pretty neat idea to put wheels on luggage? *sigh* humans. You can have 'em

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Nor do I own any demonic plot bunnys this spawns. Now I'm going to drown my sorrows at the state of humanity in chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream with brownies. And whipped cream.

I amuse him.  
That I always knew,  
but it's never been so evident  
as he smile down at me  
as I fumble with the buttons on my boots.  
What I wouldn't give for a zipper.

Eventually I'm buttoned up,  
and I glare at him before he can make  
the remark I know is on the tip of his tongue.  
He just smiles.  
Why he has to drag me along on this,  
I don't know.  
I fell very sorry for Watson at the moment though,  
who will discover the bucket on his door  
too late.

I smile at the cabby as we climb in.  
I've read Black Beauty.  
I know their life's rough.  
In the cab he explains, a bit.  
I understand now. I don't have to like it,  
But I'll do it- he needs me to.  
And having a woman do it will help.  
We're more receptive to our own kind,  
and he needs the information she'll provide.

Later in the cab on the way back... home, I suppose,  
I tell him everything.  
He thanks me, and smiles.  
I like his smile.  
He should show it more often.  
But I don't tell him.  
It'd only make him clam up again,  
and it's taken months for me to get this far.

By that night the mystery's solved,  
and Watson is dry again.  
I'm happily writing,  
as is the doctor,  
though we're writing vastly different things.

I work on a novel I started  
before I came here,  
seems like years ago.  
Well, I suppose it was- or will be, whatever.  
Watson transcribes the days events,  
Sherlock thinks,  
as always

Suddenly, he asks my opinion on something,  
as though we'd been talking about it for hours.  
I answer,  
and we're off.

Review. Then maybe I won't eat this entire bucket of ice cream and chocolate sauce. Not that that would be a bad way to go, but that's beside the point.


	16. Train

Authors Note: OK, another written from the unnamed third person. I have a lot, but I'll put ones that aren't up too. If that makes any sense.... I just realized I've written more peoms for Jeremy and Holmes than I have for anything else. Muse, your name is Jeremy.

Disclaimer: Sorry, don't own them. If I did, would I be here writing fanfiction instead of doing my Physics homework? I think not. Then I'd be able to hire someone to do the Physics.

Smoke obscures his face,  
emerging from his pipe steadily,  
with the rhythm of a train  
that hasn't yet picked up speed.

It gathers above his head,  
like low clouds gathering  
before an oncoming storm,  
filling the room,  
hiding the ceiling.

He doesn't seem to notice  
how the smoke fills the room,  
all his concentration spent on one thing-  
unraveling the mystery before him.

The only noise is the ticking of the clock,  
puff of his pipe,  
scratch of pen on paper as his companion  
chronicles their latest mis-adventure.

Eventually the fire dies down,  
the pen is put away,  
the story completed,  
and the second man goes to bed.

But the smoke continues,  
with the rhythm of a train,  
just gaining speed.

As always, reviews are more than welcome. Virtual cookies to all who review! They're double chocolate chip... or I have christmas cookies. Or Hallowe'en candy....


	17. Walk, or Like It

Authors Note: It occured to me that our 'world' is very different from Holmes', so I think that's where this came from. I think...

Disclaimer: I'm not sayin' it twice in one day. It's a matter of principle.

As we walk down the London streets,  
I'm sure he's mentally sighing  
and shaking his head.  
I may have adjusted to skirts and boots,  
but I'll never master the was Victorian women walk.  
He may notice it, but I doubt everyone does.

In many ways, I love living here.  
The smell, the lack of pollution,  
the horses, the people,  
at first it all seemed to me like something  
out of a historical novel.  
Now it's almost... normal.  
Even if some of my quirks that were normal  
at home, drive him nuts,  
or at least intrigue him.

My swearing shocked him at first,  
my initial refusal to wear dresses was a challenge  
for him to force me to overcome.  
He and Mrs. Hudson ganged up on me.  
My brain's something for him to pick when needed,  
though it's not always much use.  
How my feminism affects him I don't know.  
Should find out.

My humming is sometimes intriguing enough  
that I have to tell him the lyrics.  
But I think he likes what a nuisance I am.

He's not a nuisance to me, though.  
I like him- a lot.  
I like the smell of his pipe,  
instead of the acrid stench of cigarettes at home,  
the random things he doesn't  
(just to confuse us, I swear)  
that are so much like the things I do,  
how good he looks in a top hat.

I love that small smile he sometimes  
allows to slip out,  
for a brief instant,  
his laughter,  
the sound of his violin in the middle of the night,  
when he can't sleep.  
It keeps Watson up,  
not me.  
I like it.

I like it when he smiles,  
laughs,  
plays,  
for me,with me.  
I like it a lot.

OK, two posts in one day, I deserve a review, don't I?


	18. Laundry

Authors Note: OK, I have no idea how they did laundry in the 1880s- 1890's, but I gave it my best shot. Holmes strikes me as the short of person who always forgets to empty his pockets, and though I'm sure Watson usually remembers, he forgot this time. And it seems to me that it'd be rather difficult being in close proximity to them for extended periods of time. Especially if you were a rabid fangirl as I am and am possesed with the incredible urge to kiss the TV screen every time Jeremy Brett comes on it.... yummy........

Authors Note 2: is still eating any spaces I put at the beginning of lines, so if it looks funny, that's why. It's... alive......

Disclaimer: One cannot OWN a genius, and that's what Holmes is, is he not? And I for one, don't think one could own the Doctor either, so I, obviously, am just doing this for my own amusement.

You never realize  
just how hard this is,  
until you're doing it.

I frown at the mound of laundry  
and follow Mrs. Hudsons lead,  
emptying the pockets.  
I do notice that I have Holmes'.  
I sigh and go to work.

I find string,  
chalk, bits of paper,  
little envelopes,  
and a dozen other...  
odd... things.  
Some I just don't want to know.

He carries the weirdest things  
in his pockets.  
And I thought I was bad.  
Well I was. When I had pockets.  
One of the reasons I hate dresses-  
no pockets.

I also don't want to know  
about the stains.  
Some I'm sure are chemicals  
from experiments upstairs,  
others dirt, one I'm positive is blood.  
Hopefully not his this time.  
The black material hides the grass stains  
I'm sure are there.

I'll give the laundry this though.  
Living with those two,  
you end up with a lot of frustration.  
Laundry is the ideal victim.  
If Mrs. Hudson notices  
the use use the laundry is being used for,  
she doesn't comment.

Hours later,  
when we're done,  
I hear Sherlocks violin upstairs.  
They must have sneaked past us.

Smart.  
I'd love to take my frustration out  
on something that could apologize.

Thanks for reading this far, review and tell me how you liked it! Or if you hated it. Just TELL ME! It's snoing up here, and I live in th BASEMENT! i can't feel my fingers anymore.....


	19. The Blue Book

Authors Note: I had the rather odd urge to describe the first real volume of Doyle that I ever read (and wasn't abridged beyond all recognition)- a 1950's volume of 'The Best' of Doyle Holmes stories with a VERY interesting prolouge and all the wonderful tidbits it had in it about everyones favourite Private Consulting Detective. Like the year he was born, and an interesting paragraph on the debate about where he went to university (the jury's still out on that one.)

Disclaimer: The book isn't even mine- it's my dad's. Gimme a break.

The book is solid,  
almost heavy, in my hands.  
Its weight reassures me  
of its reality.

The light shines on it,  
catching the gold embossing,  
illuminating it.  
The leather takes on a glow  
all its own  
in the light.

It shines in the light,  
illuminated.  
Glowing.  
Real.  
Alive.

The silk cord passed through its pages,  
filled to bursting with words,  
shines dully in the light,  
pale blue,  
against darkest blue leather.

Its contents shines in my mind  
like a beacon,  
calling to me,  
because of all it contains.  
The stories.  
The men.  
The people.

Inside those pages,  
those two leather flaps,  
those men live,  
as vivaciously as ever,  
as one hundred years ago,  
as ever.

It smells old,  
but somehow new still.  
Strange, wonderful smell.  
And the pages are smooth and thin,  
the slightest bit yellow,  
instead of bleached white.

It automatically opens  
to one hundred thirty nine,  
Sign of Four,  
searching for the Aurora.

I devour the book,  
again and again,  
copying out passages,  
quotes,  
tidbits of information.  
I work through the problems,  
recalling distant memories,  
reliving, time and time again.

The thick gold bands shine,  
stamped into the leather,  
the dark blue seeming to breathe  
with life.  
With being.  
With love.

Well? Tell me how you liked it! Please? I offer cocolate or caramel syrup on the goody of your choice!


	20. Within These Pages

Authors Note: I'll try to update more regularily, but once school's out at the end of the week, I should be able to work on this more frequently. Ordering the mishmash of stuff I've written into somesemblance of a recognizeable timeline is harder than I thought! This is, again, prompted by the book I read my 'first' Holmes stories in. Doyle shouldn't have been knighted- he should have been sainted. At least.

Disclaimer: I wish. Santa? Pwease?

Those pages  
are life.

Life itself  
is contained within those fragile pieces  
of pale paper,  
covered with words  
written over a century before.

They are my life.  
They are his life.  
They are a mans remembrance.

Within these pages,  
great men live.  
Lesser men fall.  
And we laugh  
and puzzle  
over their follies  
and remarks.

Within these pages,  
I can do anything.

Within these pages,  
London breathes fog and smoke,  
hansom cabs clip through the streets,  
and the street urchins  
see all.

Within these pages  
mysteries are solved.

Within these pages,  
a great man travels England,  
Europe,  
searching, seeking.  
Finding.  
Or maybe he's the one sought.

Within these pages,  
men and women  
come to life,  
animated,  
created.  
Believed in.  
Real.

Within these pages,  
a man sees.

Within these pages,  
the impossible  
must be eliminated.  
Trifles  
are the most important.  
What you see  
may not be what is.

Within these pages  
they come to life.

Within these pages  
men see worlds  
in a glance.

Within these pages  
love matters above all.  
Love makes anything happen.  
Anything can happen with love.

And we do love him.  
And we always will.

Within these pages  
he knows us.

Within these pages  
we understand him.

Within these pages  
we can love him.

Within these pages,  
he is real.

Maybe if you review, Santa'll bring my the rights for the Winter Holiday of Your Choice! I can only hope. Regardless, reviews are much appreciated and very welcome.


	21. Wind

Authors Note: Two updates in one day? Woot! The wind really was howling with a vengeance a hungry pack of werewolves would envy the night I wrote this, and I suppose that's where it came from (no duh...)

Authors Note2: This poem's for Casey, who I've recently re-found, and who loves all things furry. Though this does not contain furry things, I think she would like it, if she knew I wrote poetry, and loved SH, and I posted on .... yeah.

Disclaimer: read previous 20 chapters, duckies. I won't say it twice in one day.

The wind howls outside,  
whistling between the building,  
rattling the glass window-panes.

I sit by the fire,  
warm and cozy,  
mug of tea in one hand,  
pen in the other,  
writing down all the latest.  
All the little things that won't ever  
make it into the stories,  
but that I think should be remembered.

I sit by the fire,  
warm, cozy, and worried.  
I've written two pages  
when I should have five,  
and my tea's growing cold.  
His note said he'd be back by nightfall.  
That was hours ago.

Logically,  
I know he must survive  
-he's not within a decade  
of his retirement-  
but I still worry.  
That maybe I've changed something.  
I'd never forgive myself.

Looking at the clock  
for what must be the millionth time,  
I've almost made up my mind  
to go look for them  
when I hear someone coming up the stairs.

The poker's within my reach,  
and I'm prepared to use it.  
Whether to beat burglers with,  
or threaten my house-mates.

When they come stumbling in,  
I'm ready for them.

In five minutes flat,  
they're changed,  
wrapped in blankets,  
each have a cup of tea,  
and are ensconced by the fire.

Were their teeth not chattering,  
(I'm not going to ask how  
they got that wet),  
I'm sure they'd be staring at me.  
As it is, they just look comical.

When they're warm,  
and the pot of tea empty,  
I ask what happened.

They protest, naturally.  
Say it was too undignified.  
I respond with raised eyebrows  
and a meaningful look outside.  
They tell me.  
They know I'll throw them out,  
or at least let them get chilled again.

I was right.  
I shouldn't have asked.

Love reviews, and you're welcome to give as many as you like! Really! I don't bite... maybe nibble a bit on animal crackers, but not people at least....


	22. Night

Authors Note: Sorry I haven't been updating as much as I should have been, being off from school and all, but a relative we haven't seen in years is here from Vancouver, and we're spending a lot of time with her. And, well... I GOT THE COMPLETE SERIES FOR CHRISTMAS!!! BOOKS _AND_ MOVIES!!! gasp gasp gasp. I spent the first half hour hugging it and cuddling it and stroking it and calling it my precious. I love my dvds, I do. So that's where I'll be if you need me- in front of the TV watching my darling.... my precious...

Disclaimer: Since I only just got my own copies, it is completely illogical that I should own the rights to them. I don't. And yes, the site is eating the spaces still...

I go to the window,  
and look down.  
He's just standing there,  
across the street,  
drenched in moonlight  
and surrounded by fog and smoke.

He's not looking at me,  
waiting for something,  
studying the ground,  
top hat obscuring his face.

But I know it's him  
-the walking stick,  
the way he stands,  
his clothes.  
It's him.

Then a child  
-an Irregular, no doubt-  
runs up to him, and,  
chattering a mile a minute,  
presses something into his hand.  
He nods, and the child runs off.

When the boy has vanished,  
he looks up at me,  
obviously having been aware  
of my scrutiny  
the whole while.

I nod and smile.  
The nod he returns,  
and crosses the street towards me,  
out of my line of sight.  
I lean back,  
thinking.

He must love the night  
as much as I do,  
or he would have waited inside.  
Or maybe it was just that urgent.

Sometimes at night,  
when I can't sleep,  
I dress, and walk the streets,  
'Acquainted With the Night'  
running through my head.

No one's mugged me yet,  
despite the fact that I'm a woman,  
so maybe it's a good thing  
that I haven't mastered the walk  
of Victorian women.  
I'm too confident for that,  
to be an easy target.

Down forbidden streets I walk,  
with the moonlight,  
the smoke and fog,  
alone,  
with only my footsteps  
for company.

Because I can.  
Because I have to.

Give me feedback! Then I might actually try to tear myself away from the screen upon which Homes is playing. Over, and over... and over.. and over... yummy.


	23. After the Falls

Authors Note: I'M SORRY! I got sucked into that awful entity know as 'Real Life' and I've barely been on the computer at all for what seems like forever and I'm sorry! Oh, I've pretty much given up trying tp post thises in order. Now, they got posted in the order that they get posted. Saright?

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it, wish I did though.

I feel like a complete idiot  
as I write the telegram.

I should have done something.  
But what?  
I told him what I knew,  
what he should do.  
Obviously he had followed  
the original script.

I sigh, putting head in hands.  
Maybe it was best.  
But for what he was putting Watson through,  
I'd shake him good.  
But I'd probably spoil it by crying.

I just hoped Mycroft got him my message.  
Then maybe I could shake him  
earlier than I'd anticipated.

* * *

It's a week  
Before he's on my door step.  
Even through the makeup and wig,  
I recognize him,  
and yank him inside.  
The idiot.

When I turn from locking the door,  
he's himself,  
and I can't bring myself to slap him.  
No matter how much I think he deserves it.

I give him the hug of his life,  
probably scaring the poor man  
half to death.  
He deserves it- the hug and the scare.  
After a moment,  
he hesitantly puts his arms around me  
around me.

I sigh.  
He's never really hugged me before,  
I just hugged him the once-  
when he left for the Falls.  
I knew.  
It feels good to have his arms around me,  
however hesitantly.

Very good.

Well, I probably don't deserve reviews considering how long it's been since I posted, but I am sorry!

Please?


	24. Yelling

Authors Note: Because hasn't evreybody just wasn't to slap him at least once?

Disclaimer: I wish.

The first thing I hear  
as I step inside,  
is the shouting.

Usually, it's quiet,  
one way or another.  
Maybe Sherlocks violin playing softly,  
ticking of a clock,  
shrilling of the kettle,  
crackle of the fire,  
but raised voices passed quickly.

Mrs. Hudson appears-  
to take the packages I'd been sent out for.  
I look at her, and at the door.  
"Been going on for half an hour now."  
she tells me.

That was Watson shouting,  
not Holmes.

What on earth had possessed him?

I quickly run through possibilities  
-Holmes had gotten himself injured,  
or they'd gotten someone else hurt.

No, that was Holmes shouting now.  
He wouldn't be shouting if it was those.  
That meant it had to be the damn poison.

My nails bite into my palms.  
Well if it had come to that, about that,  
I'd better go relieve Watson.

I bend over and unbutton my boots,  
taking my time,  
and unpin the hat I'd been wrestled into.  
Watson still sounded plenty fresh,  
and we'd need all the time we could get  
if we were going to yell some sense into  
Holmes' thick head.

When I'm barefoot and my hair's been released,  
the packages, unpacked and put away,  
I turn to the door.

I wait outside for long moments,  
gauging the mood,  
thinking through my arguments,  
listening to Watsons,  
and Holmes' rebukes.

I'm surprised the gas-jets haven't shattered  
from their voices.

When I enter the room,  
they both round on me,  
expecting Mrs. Hudson, no doubt.  
Watsons face is relieved,  
Homes' impassive.  
Watson pleads with me to talk some sense into him.  
"Seven per cent solution?" I ask,  
and he nods,  
not even surprised at my knowledge.

I nod,  
armed for battle,  
and we begin.

We talk quietly at first,  
Watson reassured by my presence,  
then steadily grow more fervent  
as Holmes refuses us,  
rejects out arguments.

I keep my voice quiet,  
even as Watsons grows louder,  
and Homes' rises to match it.  
I dreg up every study I can remember reading,  
every figure,  
every statistic,  
but it's not enough.

When the gas-jets are rattling,  
I yell for them to stop.  
Surprised, they do.  
They've never heard me raise my voce,  
except in laughter,  
or extreme excitement.

I look at the Doctor,  
his face shocked and eyes pleading.  
I tell him to go to his room for a while,  
_I'll_ try.  
When he's left,  
a terrifying hope and despair  
doing battle in his face,  
I turn to Holmes.

He's collapsed in his chair by the fire,  
as if nothing is wrong,  
as if this were a simple disagreement,  
not about his very life.

I look at him for long moments  
before one of his eyes opens  
to look at me.  
I cross my arms as I look back,  
chewing over what I'll say.

His eye closes,  
obviously dismissing me,  
and my anger boils back up,  
all the fury I'd suppressed for the two men  
comes back to me,  
burning my throat.

I cross to him and stand in front of him,  
angrily telling him to get up.  
Looking at me curiously at me, he does so.  
Then, with all the strength my fury gives me,  
I slap him.

He's so shocked,  
he just stands there,  
cheek already reddening.  
An apology automatically bubbles up,  
but I force it down.  
Later,  
and only if it did some good.

His eyes are still shocked  
as I tell him that that was for being an idiot.

I turn away angrily and begin pacing  
as he stands there.  
Apparently shocked into silence for now.  
Good.  
That'll teach him.

"You are being an idiot," I tell him  
"Because you are systematically killing yourself,  
in a thorough and degrading way  
that puts razor blades  
or bullets to shame."  
This anger is a new kind  
-not the blinding red rage  
when my mom took away my CD player,  
but a cold, numbing anger  
that lets me speak better  
than the other kind.

"You are not only shortening a lifespan  
that would be used to help dozens,  
but you are ruining your mind."  
I turn to pace, and I see that I'm repeating  
what Watson has already said-  
my handprint is the only difference.

I stop and look at him in silence,  
mournfully,  
and his face changes ever so subtly.  
That was new to him,  
this silent sorrow.

"But that's not why I want you to stop."  
I tell him quietly,  
barely above a whisper,  
not even sure where I'm going with this  
until I say the words,  
letting my instincts guide me.

"It's because you're hurting,  
because you think you need that damn drug."  
I can see he doesn't follow,  
and I take a deep breath  
as I try to explain.

"Because... you feel that need,  
for that stuff,  
and you don't even try.  
You don't even try to talk to us,  
you don't even consider it.  
You don't think we'll understand,  
or that we can't be trusted,  
or something,  
but you don't even try to stop,  
you just accept it.

"No." I say as he tries to speak.  
"Let me finish.  
"I know you don't like people.  
I know you have problems relating  
to them in general.  
I know you'd rather sit there and smoke  
than try to make polite conversation,  
but that's not the point!

"You have us,  
you have Watson.  
You've known him for years,  
he's your best friend,  
the best and man could have,  
and you don't even try.

"You've been to Hell and back together.  
Hell, you've been to Whitechapel!"  
I see the corner of his mouth twitch  
before falling back to a poker face  
I know all too well.

"Do you have any conception  
of what this is doing to him?  
Watching practically the only friend he has  
in the entire world,  
slowly killing himself?

"Forget about your brain  
and all the stuff you've got in that  
damn thick skull of yours,  
Forget about all the stuff you could do.  
Think about him.

Think about Watson.  
Think about Mrs. Hudson.  
Think about your brother.  
Hell, think about me!

You let them think you were dead.  
You came back,  
and they'd survived.  
But Mycroft knew.  
And I knew.  
What would it do to all of us  
to have to go to a funeral  
where the coffin was full?"

I go on.  
I don't know how long I talk for,  
but the clock chimed once.

I tell him of a friend I had  
that I lost to drugs.  
I tell him of all the children of the future  
that will see him as a superhero.  
I tell him of all the errors he'll make,  
tell him every detail  
I can muster up,  
every flaw,  
and every mistake.

And he listens.

He actually sits there,  
and listens.

I'd never spoken of my time before,  
not at any great length,  
-too many explanations,  
too scared of changing things.  
But then all I could think of  
was saving him.

All I could think of  
was knocking some sense  
into that great fool head of his,  
by physical force if necessary.

I spoke quietly,  
I spoke normally.  
I yelled and screamed  
when he didn't listen.

But, in the end,  
he heard me out.  
And when I was done,  
my palmprint on his cheek  
hadn't yet begun to fade,  
and I was left feeling empty.  
I had given all I had.  
I had nothing left.

I told him so,  
and I left, closing the door,  
quietly,  
behind me.

I went up the stairs,  
and knocked on Watsons door.  
He opened it,  
and I looked him in the eye.

"I yelled, I screamed, I shouted,  
and I slapped him."  
I told him, and he looked at me  
with a kind of wonder.  
"I swore at him, and told him everything.  
He listened.  
What he does now is up to him."

I turned and went up to my room.  
After a long minute, I heard his door close.

I fell into bed,  
exhausted by my memories,  
and the argument,  
and cried  
as I relived every horrible minute  
of the whole thing.

* * *

Soooo.... what do you think?


	25. Discovery

We watch him  
with open curiousity.  
As he moves, is.  
We observe the way he moves,  
speaks, gestures,  
his expressions,  
his reactions.

We search in vain, perhaps,  
for something.  
Something to take us to him,  
bring him closer to us,  
let us understand him.  
Some clue,  
something to explain it.  
Something to lead us to him,  
at the heart of this labyrinth.

We memorize the lines,  
mouth them with him,  
watching the way his lips move,  
not wanting to say them ourselves,  
for fear of being unable to  
hear his voice,  
for fear of breaking some silent oath,  
some magical spell.

He mystifies us,  
and yet we watch him,  
and slowly begin to understand.  
Some better than others,  
but we all understand  
to some degree.

We read the stories that explain,  
watching,  
until we can find our own explanations.  
We watch,  
finding new puzzles,  
unraveling them,  
for the sheer joy of understanding.

He's an enigma,  
one we delight in discovering,  
and love even more  
for all the fact that we will never  
fully fathom him.  
Because there will always be more  
mysteries to uncover,  
more puzzles to solve,  
more facets to discover.  
Always more.

And maybe that's one of the reasons we watch.  
To discover.

Have I made up for being a bad girl? Three updates in one day not good enough? We'll see.

Reviews? For all the groveling, I at least deserve something. Please? I have cookies and friendshiip bracelets. Also useful as hair ties, other jewlery, shoelaces, bookmarks and almost anything else.


	26. Pressure, grief

Authors Note: Thsi was written some time ago, just after I had really discovered SH, and Jeremy Brett. I had just found out that he had died, and a lot of things kind of came to a head for me then. I devoured everything I could find about him, and I really did feel that I'd lost someone that I had known. I still feel that way, but it doesn't hurt so badly any more. This is a very personal one for me, so please be kind and review.

Disclaimer:I don't own anything.

That feeling's back.  
The fullness.  
The emptiness  
that fills me.  
There's not enough room  
to hold it all.  
It overflows,  
dripping over the edges  
of my heart.

It's so heavy,  
this load,  
this emptiness.  
There's so much of it.  
I can't hold it all.  
It's not possible.  
Not for me,  
not for anyone.  
There's just too much.  
Too much to hold.

Your smile, your laughter,  
Your hair, your eyes,  
deeper than all roses.  
Your voice, your smell,  
your touch, your feel  
beneath my hands.

I can't do this.  
There's too much.  
But I can't let it go.  
I can't.  
To let anything go.  
To let anything go  
would be to lose a part of you.  
And I couldn't bear that.

I lay my head in my hands,  
and cry.  
The tears ease the pressure a bit.  
But I don't even know if I want that.

To lose this fullness,  
this pressure,  
would be to lose all I have left  
of you.  
Everything I've saved,  
anything that means anything  
everything that means anything.  
Everything that is everything.

To lose even the barest drop,  
the slightest inch,  
would be unbearable.  
I would have lost you,  
all over again.

Your smile, your laughter,  
your hair, your eyes,  
deeper than all roses.

Anyone get the references? Please review!


	27. Home Again

Authors Note: Everyone needs to be looked after sometimes.:) That I'm posting again all of a sudden is the product of procrastination- I should really be doing my history. Though I am doing my paper on Doyle. :)))

Disclaimer: I wish I did, but I don't. Own them, that is. Doyle had a much cooler life than I have(though I'm sure he didn't think so at the time), and I don't have the genius to write all that stuff! sheesh...

I watch him  
as he sleeps,  
collapsed in the chair  
by the fire.

Fresh from a case,  
he hasn't slept for days,  
and pays the price now.  
Watson, at least, got some sleep.

He looks peaceful now,  
in a way that he never will  
during his waking hours.  
Relaxed,  
in a way he never will be  
while awake.

I grab a blanket,  
and put it over him,  
pulling it high,  
and add more fuel to the fire.  
It's late,  
and it will be cold soon enough,  
We don't need a sick Sherlock.

If he's sick, he's grumpy,  
and grumpy is not a good thing.

Looking at him, I smile.  
Can't help it.  
I'd hate to think what he'd do  
without the Doctor and me.

Well, I know what he'd do without me.  
The same thing he's always done.  
As long as Watson is here,  
he'll be all right.

Upstairs, I peek in on Watson,  
and find him collapsed on his bed,  
fully dressed and dead to the world.  
I find another blanket  
and cover him too.  
A grumpy Watson is nearly as bad.

Finished my rounds,  
I go to bed,  
happy they're home again,  
if exhausted.

Review, peas!


	28. After the Yelling

Authors Note: Haven't updated in a while (as usual), but RL has grabbed me by the throat and declined to let go. Also have a bad cold, which doesn't help. reviews welcome, as always.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did. Also wish I owned Freddy (Eliza didn't deserve him, and how can you refuse a face like that? I'll comfort him, don't worry.) and about three dozen other things, but that's beside the point....

I don't leave my room  
for the rest of the night,  
and though I hear Watson go down for dinner,  
he doesn't stay long.

Maybe if we give him time to think,  
he'll come to the right conclusion.  
I hope so.  
I care for him too much  
to let him go on this way.  
I'll steal that damn Morocco case  
if I have to.  
Throw it in the Thames or something.  
But he'd just buy another.

I spend the night writing-  
mustering more arguments,  
just in case.  
Planning what I'll do if he doesn't  
make the right decision.  
Last resort, I'll go to Mycroft.  
Or beat the idiot into submission.

I write out song lyrics  
that have been running through my head,  
another chapter of my novel  
that will never be published,  
before I go to bed.

Usually we talk before bed,  
or I listen to him play,  
or I tell a story.  
I miss that.

But if my solitude is what it takes  
to get him off the poison,  
I'll endure it gladly.

Here's where the discrepancies come in.  
The show had him overcome it.  
The books never did.  
It just became dormant. Not dead.

Regardless of what would happen in the long run,  
I'm steering him in the direction of the show,  
whether or not he likes it.  
Whether or not he listens.  
I hope he does though.

He puts us all through hell on a daily basis,  
but we can't leave.  
Can't abandon him.  
He's ours.  
He's ours and we're his.  
We belong here,  
in some strange way.

We belong with him,  
and he needs us.  
Needs us to distract him,  
needs us to keep him going,  
just as we need him,  
to just be him.

That's all I ask.

Well, that and to throw that damned needle  
in a furnace somewhere.

reviews welcome, I think they may have the same effect as cough syrup without the bad taste or making me groggy, so anything you have to say will be more than welcome....

I hate spring colds.


	29. Doing as he would do

Authors Note: Sorry I haven't updated in a while, but there were these things called 'final exams' that kinda got in the way, and being in IB, that makes it even harder. Not failing math is always a good thing!

Disclaimer: Haven't we been through this enough times already? I don't own them!

Do you ever find yourself  
emulating him?

The quick smile,  
the way your hands move,  
the way you speak?

The way you walk.  
The way you see things.

Have you ever cried  
after seeing through his eyes,  
frightened,  
by a glimpse of a world  
you hadn't seen before.  
Hadn't known existed,  
how awful it was,  
being able to see it all.  
Hadn't wanted to see.

Have you ever caught yourself  
thinking like him,  
looking for a motive  
when no one else is aware  
that there is a crime.

Have you ever realized  
you were acting  
according to what he would do?

Have you ever analyzed  
a complete stranger,  
and not felt ashamed?  
Just for the practice?

I have.

I've tried to deduce things,  
about my fellow students.  
Caught myself smiling,  
moving, thinking, speaking,  
like him.  
Sobbed after seeing what he sees.

I've watched him  
for what seemed like forever,  
copied him, talked about him,  
written about him, read about him,  
laughed over him, dreamed about him,  
loved him.

All love,  
almost from the start,  
But that's another story.

Please, reviews always welcome! Exceeding the number of chapters would be nice....

And.... drumroll please.... I have a question. do you think SACD's female character reflect views of the time or more modren views? Why? because I'll probably be doing an essay on it! gotta love theses wide open 'give me four thousand words by christmas' essays. . . . .


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